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Dressed in cut white poster-board I stood on
stage at the Weaver Street Kindergarten
and to people I didn't know I recited,
"I am a peanut butter and jelly
sandwich." A stranger touched-up my colors
with magic markers; dressed me with stick pins,
tape and staples. Before I said my line,
my hands explored the brown and purple edges
and found a sharp part. It was necessary
to locate the slicing thing. I found it
twice more; cutting three fingers and the top
of my palm. My interior leaked on
crust. I said nothing, but stared at my hands,
then smeared them on my white bread body.
When the celery stalk shoved me, I raised
my arms, palms outward, and said, "I am
a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
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